


Run Down and Tired

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred is in charge, Angst, Batman whump, Bruce Wayne gets rescued by Superman, Bruce and Clark are best friends, Bruce is overworked, Bruce's life is hard, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Gen, He doesn't know how to take a break, Hurt/Comfort, Jim Gordon and Batman are friends, Maybe - Freeform, Might eventually be some WonderBat, Mystery... kind of, Pre-Slash, Week in the life of Batman, Work In Progress, bruce is tired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-09 01:32:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15256479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: This is basically a week in the life of Bruce Wayne-- the Batman. He has a busy, busy life and can't slow down for anything. Includes cameos from lots of characters: Clark Kent, Jim Gordon, Diana Prince, Harvey Bullock. May eventually expand into a longer fic, we'll see.





	1. Tuesday, Daytime

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of these characters, DC Comics does.

On mid-Tuesday morning, Bruce was asleep, exhausted after chasing down what felt like at least half of the Penguin’s gang last night. In addition to that, he’d had a long night the day before while he was trying to figure out where the impending turf war between the Riddler and Two-face was going to be; despite all his efforts, Bruce hadn’t figured it out yet and it was bothering him, like a sliver he couldn’t quite pull out. Further adding to his cortisol-levels, the shareholders had decided to move the annual meeting a week up, which meant he now had a lot less time than expected to prepare to act stupid— it took a significant amount of work; he had to actually know the information, and then remember what not to ask about as well. 

Bruce stirred, trying to ignore Alfred’s passive-aggressive dusting— he had no sympathy for Bruce when he came in late, and would say, “Master Bruce, I would remind you that you need sleep, but alas, I know when my battles are lost. Do not expect me to be sympathetic come morning.” True to his butler’s word, the man had no sympathy for Bruce now. Groaning, Bruce grabbed his pillow to put it over his head, hoping that would allow him to grab a few more minutes. But he’d forgotten about his recently re-placed shoulder, and as he reached up, it cramped, sending a powerful, painful twinge through the joint. Hissing, he sat up. “You wouldn’t happen to be injured would you, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked, deliberately not looking at him. 

Sighing, Bruce answered, somewhat sleep-addled, “Just a formerly dislocated shoulder, Alfred; I reset it last night after I got back.” Alfred paused his dusting to give it a brief once-over. He nodded slightly, walking towards the door. 

Just before leaving, he paused and said, “I would advise you to let me look at it later, before patrol. Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes.” Bruce stood, yawning, and went to get dressed. 

The day at W.E. proved to not be as easy as Bruce had hoped; the minute he’d entered the building, Lucius had pounced on him, and handed him a thick stack of papers in a manila folder, saying, “Bruce! I’m glad I caught you. You know the shareholders moved the meeting forward, right? I need you to read these before then.” Eyeing the pile dubiously, Bruce pasted a bemused, slightly weary smile on his face. 

“Gosh, Lucius, I didn’t! Thanks for telling me. But… I don’t know if I can get through all these that quickly— I have a lunch date with Vicky Vale tomorrow, golf with Jim Gordon for the policeman’s luncheon on Thursday, and I may go to the charity gala at the art museum on Friday. I’ll do my best though!” Bruce said, hurrying away from Lucius, who pretended to look exasperated with his seemingly empty-headed CEO. But they both knew that Bruce would really have all the papers read by Thursday morning, at the latest. 

About half an hour after he’d settled into his office and had begun making a dent in the pile of reading, his telephone buzzed. “Yes, Janet?” Bruce asked, trying not to sound too annoyed with his secretary for her poor timing. 

“Sorry, Mr. Wayne, but there’s a gentleman here, from the Daily Planet, his name is—” 

“Clark Kent?” Bruce asked, hazarding a guess. Janet sounded a little surprised, and Bruce cursed mentally. Backpedaling, he said, “Oh, he probably just wants to ask me about the upcoming shareholder’s meeting; I was kind of expecting him already. But thank you. Send him right up!” Bruce read as he waited, a thin frown on his face— he was annoyed at Clark, because he already knew what the other man was going to say, and the answer was still going to be no. 

A knock on his door made Bruce put down the papers with a sigh, and say, “Come in.” 

Clark, tie askew, blue suit wrinkled, and lopsidedly smiling, stood in the doorway. “Hello, Mr. Wayne, I’m here to talk about the shareholder’s meeting that’s coming up. Is this a good time?” 

Bruce glared at him, almost wishing he could say no, but he knew that Janet was hovering somewhere near outside the door, so instead he smiled, with intense ferocity—interestingly, he’d learned that smiling eyes and glaring eyes almost look the same— and said, “Why, Mr. Kent, long time no see! I was actually just reminded about that meeting by Lucius Fox as I came in today— the man is a godsend— come on in!” Clark stepped in, managing to stumble a little and shut the door after him. 

After a few seconds of silence— Bruce didn’t doubt that Superman was listening to his secretary’s footsteps as she walked away— he turned to Bruce and said, “Look, I know you know what I’m going to say, so I’ll make it quick—” Bruce held up a hand and Clark shut up. He reached a hand under his desk and pressed the button that he’d designed to mess with any bugs placed in the room and then gestured at the seat in front of his desk. 

Clark sat and immediately began his spiel— “I know you already said you can’t go to the league meeting this weekend, but I think it’s really important that you be there. If nothing else, it’s good for team morale, and heck, you may actually learn something, Bruce!” 

Bruce leaned forward on his desk, chin resting on steepled hands. He glowered at Clark for a moment before sitting up, and deadpanning, “Really, I might learn something from the annual safety review meeting— that’s your argument? Clark, I designed the Watchtower! I approve all the updates! I already told you, I’m too busy to go to that, so unless you can come up with a better reason that I should be there, the answer’s still no.” Clark sighed, looking like he wanted to argue. Bruce bristled, and Clark seemed to notice this because he shut his mouth and ran a hand through his hair in a frustrated manner. 

Abruptly, he stood, and said, “You know what? Fine, Bruce! Don’t come to the meeting. But the next time you have a meeting that you think is important, just know that the others will have an excuse not to go. Sorry I wasted your time.” He sighed, waiting for Bruce to turn off the jamming device. Bruce nodded coldly, and Clark pasted on a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne. Good luck at the meeting!” 

“Anytime,” Bruce said cheerfully, as he glared at Clark. Superman turned and left, not saying anything else, which left a strangely empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. After a moment of staring at the abruptly empty seat, he forced his attention away from the argument and turned back to the stack of papers in front of him. 

Later that day, he’d gotten almost all the way through the papers when his phone buzzed. He unlocked it to see a notification of a text from Alfred. Bruce opened it, and saw it read: “I believe you have a party invitation.” This was their code phrase for any in-coming Bat-related duties. Bruce suppressed a groan and clicked on the link Alfred had sent him. It was a status report from the computer, as it had picked up chatter from one of Bruce’s bugs saying that Riddler’s men were planning a sneak attack on Two Face’s hide-out tonight sometime. 

This significantly altered his plan of attack, as he’d been hoping to go into this with a little more warning, and maybe some time to scope the place out. He glanced at the time— 4:10, not too early for a playboy like Bruce Wayne to stop for the day; he’d just have to stay up later and finish reading Lucius’ report then. Bruce gathered his things, said a brief farewell to his secretary, and quickly headed down to where Alfred was already waiting with the car. The moment they left the garage, Bruce sat up and asked seriously, “How long ago did that report come in, Alfred? And did anything else come up?” 

His butler frowned slightly, before sighing— he had become invested in stopping this fight too. “No, Sir. Unfortunately, what I told you is the latest information, as of now. Perhaps the computer has picked up more since I have been away,” he said. Grumbling, Bruce turned to his phone to check the news, just in case something else had happened— he didn’t want to slip up later because he’d missed something. 

Once they were back, Bruce strode into the manor and practically flung his briefcase onto his desk before going down into the Batcave and changing. Alfred soon joined him, with a sandwich and glass of water on a tray. “Not now, Alfred,” he said distractedly, scanning the latest computer report, which predicted that the conflict would occur somewhere by the docks. 

“Master Bruce,” Alfred reprimanded, “I did not make this sandwich solely for my own amusement. You must eat to keep up your strength.” Somewhat guiltily, Bruce picked up the sandwich, and took a bite, thoroughly chastised. 

“Fine, Alfred. Thank you,” he said dismissively. Wisely, his butler decided he’d done all the guidance he could for now and retreated.


	2. Tuesday, Night

Hours later, Bruce had completed his workout, taken a half-an-hour nap, and changed back into the bat suit when the computer pinged again. It was a news report of a growing fire in an apartment complex… on the other side of Gotham from the docks. Well, there went his plans to stop the impending fight. Bruce cursed, already on his way to the bat mobile. 

When Bruce arrived, one fire truck was already there. A fireman emerged from the burning building, carrying a coughing girl. “Batman!” he said, “There are still people in the building— I’ve got other men inside, and we’ve cleared the first two floors, but there’s not enough; another fire broke out right behind this building, and the other trucks aren’t going to get here for another five minutes.” Bruce nodded, before slipping on his oxygen mask and heading inside. 

Once in, he activated the heat-sensing function in the cowl’s lenses to look for cooler human bodies; they would look blue compared to the much hotter fire. Faintly, he heard someone trying to shout. Sweating, he grappled up the stairs until the noise was much more pronounced. Bruce also noted that it was getting hotter inside, as he seemed to be closer to the source of the fire. He didn’t think that the building would remain structurally sound for much longer, based off how the time it took him to arrive and the heat he was experiencing. 

As he rounded the corner, his hypothesis proved correct, as part of a ceiling beam groaned, before collapsing and almost crushing him. Grimly, Bruce noted that he was trapped on the side of the hall that didn’t appear to be connected to a set of stairs. Thankfully, the shouting voice was on this side of the hall and Bruce arrived at the apartment, breaking down the door. It was a teenage boy, who had wisely pulled a dampened washcloth over his mouth and was hidden under a table. When he saw Batman, his eyes widened, and he stood cautiously. 

Bruce quickly assessed the room and saw, grimly, that the window was the only part of the apartment that was on fire. Batman shouted at the boy, “Get a bucket, or glass, and get your skin wet!” The boy nodded, and hurried over to the kitchen cabinets, coughing. As soon as Bruce thought that he’d been thoroughly doused, he went over and put a hand on the teen’s shoulder. 

“Listen carefully! I need you to hold onto my waist— we need to go out the window, so I’m going to have you stand under my cape, it’s fire retardant. Understand?” Bruce asked. The kid, looking a lot more nervous, nodded, coughing. Bruce held up his cape and the teen huddled under. Once Bruce felt his grip, he put a hand around the kid’s and ran through the flames. Then they were through the worst of it, although Bruce could feel how singed his suit was and wouldn’t be surprised if he’d gotten burned. The teen was okay though, so Bruce quickly grabbed him and grappled down to the ground and told him to go find a fireman to report to. 

Fifteen minutes later, Bruce had cleared six more people from the building, and was now sweating profusely as he neared the top floor, searching for any remaining survivors. The wall on his right creaked ominously, and he knew in another minute or so, he’d have to leave. Suddenly, the window ruptured from the heat, and hot glass sprayed Bruce. Thankfully, his Kevlar protected most of his body, although Bruce felt the tell-tale wet warmth of blood from where he’d been cut in several places. He listened once more, but couldn’t hear anyone else, and so quickly headed out. Jim Gordon was waiting. 

“Batman!” he said, sounding somewhat surprised, “I thought you’d be down by the docks— it’s a war-zone over there.” 

Bruce scowled, and replied, “I got the alert about the fire, but my sources led me to believe that the fighting at the docks wouldn’t start until later tonight. Do you think this was planned?” Gordon glowered at the now smoking remains of the building. 

“With timing like this? I’d say so. Listen, I’ve got it covered here, go to the docks,” he said. Bruce needed no further invitation, and immediately got into the bat mobile as Gordon began barking orders as someone over the radio. 

Eight minutes later, Bruce parked a couple blocks away from the fighting. He could already hear gunshots from here and he noted that Gordon hadn’t been joking. He found the police barricade and noted, with a repressed groan, that Harvey Bullock appeared to be the one in charge. He walked up to the clump of tense officers, who were crouched behind a few cement barriers. “What’s the situation, Bullock?” he asked. The other man jumped and nearly dropped his radio. 

He glared at Batman, and hissed, “Why do you always have to sneak around like that! Jesus, Bat— nearly give a man a heart attack—” 

“— What’s the situation, Bullock?” Bruce pressed. Muttering something unsavory, Bullock raised his head and pointed at the warehouse on the left. 

“Two Face’s men are camped out in there, and they ain’t doing so hot— Riddler appears to have gotten the drop on ‘em. As far as we’ve seen, there’s about fifteen of ‘em, both sides. We’ve got officers an’ a Swat team on the way, so you better move your ass if you want to be any help!” he said. Bruce stood, mentally cursing. That was a lot of men, even for him, and with the Gotham PD’s Swat team’s reputation of having itchy trigger fingers being well-earned, he’d have to move fast. Bullock turned around to say something else to him, probably some snide comment, but Batman had already disappeared. Bullock turned forward to radio his fellow officers, “Code Bat, repeat, Code Bat— Batman is on-site.” 

Bruce landed silently on the roof of the building behind the one where Two Face’s men were supposed to be camped out in. He grabbed his binoculars and peered through the window— and immediately saw at least five men inside, looking tense, with their guns held up, ready to shoot. Just after he crept to the edge of the roof, he had to duck down as two sentries, or perhaps Riddler’s men coming to attack, cautiously went by the outside of the building. Bruce waited until they’d disappeared around the corner before leaping off the roof and gliding onto the next one, where there was a roof-accessible door. 

After picking the lock, Bruce went down the stairs, bat-a-rang at the ready. Quietly, he slipped into the lower warehouse and climbed atop a stack of boxes, waiting. Soon, he saw a group of three men, all clutching their weapons nervously, approach. As they were almost under him, he dropped a smoke bomb into the already-darkened room. The three started coughing, and one said, “Shit! The Bat’s here!” Bruce dropped, and punched him in the jaw. He went down and hit the floor with a smack. The other two soon followed. Bruce dragged them and placed them between a couple crates and tied them together. 

Eventually, he’d taken out six more men, when he heard Swat coming in. On the police radio, he heard someone mention not seeing Batman yet. As he was rounding the corner, someone shouted, “Freeze!” Bruce spun, bat-a-rang ready, but paused when he saw it was an officer. The man lowered his gun and said, apologetically, “Oh, sorry Batman! Thought you were a bad guy. How many are there left to clean up?” 

Lowering the bat-a-rang, Bruce said, “Six more; I left the others tied up. How about Riddler’s men? Are there any that are still loose?” 

“One or two got away, but that was before you got here. I think we’ve got the rest covered,” the officer said. Ordinarily, Bruce would have bristled at such a notion, but he was extremely worn down from previous nights of little sleep, not to mention his herculean efforts tonight. He figured that even the GCPD could handle six men. 

“Alright,” he said, grappling away. 

Later that night, Bruce hissed at the merciless sting of the antiseptic cleaning solution as it entered his many micro-cuts, and listened to the plink of glass as Alfred used a pair of tweezers to remove it, dropping it into a small bucket. The soothing ointment for his various burns did help, but, he noted, it also itched fiercely. As Alfred stitched up some of his deeper cuts, Bruce silently pondered the suspicious nature of the fire, and wondered if Riddler had somehow discover, or hacked, Bruce’s predictive software— which was how he’d been able to discover that the fight was happening tonight in the first place. A particularly sharp tug jerked him out of his reverie, and Alfred asked, worriedly, “Is something the matter, Master Bruce?” Bruce sighed, and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. 

“No, Alfred— I’m just trying to think about what caused that fire earlier tonight; the timing seems too suspicious to be accidental, and Gordon agrees. I’m wondering if Riddler may have discovered my predictive software,” he explained, frowning. 

Alfred hummed in agreement, and said, “That would be a rather pressing concern. However, given your recent injuries, and the activities on tomorrow’s docket, I would hesitantly suggest that it may be a matter for another night, Sir.” Bruce scowled at his butler’s not-so-subtle-hint that he needed sleep. 

“I need to finish reading those files Lucius gave me before the meeting next week, I can do that in bed,” he said, smirking. 

Alfred frowned, scolding, “That is not what I meant, Bruce, and you bloody well know it! Unfortunately for you, it is a basic fact of human biology that sleep is required for survival. You are not Superman. I would hate to see what would happen if you try to become so.” With that, he finished up the last of the stitches, and bandaged the wounds Bruce couldn’t reach, then retreated upstairs to go to bed. Bruce finished dressing his wounds, wincing as his burned hands touched the wrappings. He stood a little stiffly and made his way to the computer, to do some research.


	3. Wednesday, Daytime

The next morning, Alfred wisely did not press him about his continual yawning, or the periwinkle shadows under his eyes. His butler simply handed him coffee, and said, “You are meeting Ms. Vale at the Globe Room Lounge at 2 p.m. today for a lunch meeting. I shall arrive at 1:40 to drive you over, if that is acceptable.” Bruce grunted an affirmative response, sipping his coffee with his eyes closed. He could feel Alfred watching, so he opened his eyes and began eating his breakfast, but didn't taste a thing. 

Bruce finished reading the last of Lucius’ documents around 11 a.m., and began reading his backlogged email. His phone buzzed around noon; it was Vicky reminding him of their upcoming meeting. He sent a vaguely flirty response and went back to reading a report from Research that he had to sign. Later, right before Alfred was scheduled to arrive, his phone buzzed again. This time, it was Diana, asking if he was going to the JL meeting. He scowled, knowing that Clark had probably put her up to it. He left the message on read, as his phone's clock said it was time for Alfred to arrive. 

Diana texted him a frowny face emoji with a question mark. Glowering at the screen, he replied, “Sorry, busy. Not going to meeting; waste of time. Have case” and put his phone on vibrate and stared in silence out the window for the rest of the drive. 

Alfred pulled up to the front of the restaurant, and thankfully, there were only one or two tabloid photographers. Bruce suppressed his irritation, and put on a charming smile as he walked inside the building and rode the elevator up to the restaurant. Vicky was waiting for him a spacious private booth, tucked into the back of the room, with a nice view of Gotham harbor. When she saw him, she smiled and stood to greet him. 

Soon after he’d settled in, a waiter appeared with two menus, and Bruce quickly ordered lobster bisque— he’d heard it was good here— and turned back to Vicky, curious as to why’d she had wanted to meet him. It turned out she was writing a story about a new bill to update Gotham’s social services, more specifically, to update the orphanages and juvenile detention centers. She wanted to set up an interview with Bruce, as he was a frequent donor to various charities that supported social services— the other, unspoken, reason was that any interview with Bruce Wayne was sure to generate more interest in a story, and, more importantly, he was Gotham’s most predominate orphan. 

Bruce didn’t blame Vicky for her enthusiasm, he really didn’t. In fact, he doubted if she even saw the connections— not that she was unintelligent, it was just that maybe she didn’t think about how it might feel like she was using him to get more people to read her story. But still, it made him feel tired, and he realized he’d become distracted when Vicky asked, “Bruce?” in an obvious follow up to a question he’d missed. 

He had to force himself to ask, sheepishly grinning, “Sorry, what was that? I’m afraid I was rather distracted.” True to what he’d heard, the bisque was good, and Vicky’s conversation interesting. They arranged to meet sometime next week, and Bruce left, still feeling somehow deenergized. 

Alfred was waiting for him, and asked as he slid into the backseat, “How was lunch, sir?” Bruce swallowed, still feeling… unsettled. 

“Fine. Vicky wants to interview me for a story she’s writing about that new bill in support of increasing funding to Gotham’s social services. We agreed to meet sometime next week so she can interview me,” he said. Unbeknownst to him, Alfred quirked an eyebrow, sensing his foster-son’s mood. 

“That is excellent news, Sir, that this bill is getting press coverage, and that you are helping,” he said, hoping to discover what was bothering Bruce. 

There was a pause, heavy with unsaid emotion, before Bruce replied, “I suppose so, Alfred. It’s just— it’s silly…” 

Alfred refrained from sighing, as it was sure to make Bruce retreat farther into his shell. Patiently, the older man asked, “What ‘is silly,’ Sir?” Bruce stiffened in his seat, almost as if he was surprised at his slip-up. Alfred noted sharply to ask him later exactly how little sleep he’d been getting recently. 

He was quiet a minute longer, seeming to ponder his words before hesitantly stating, “It’s just, I wish it felt less like she was using me— I know it’s stupid, and she doesn’t know I feel that way, but it’s just… every time there’s a story like this, I inevitably get asked for my opinion, and it would be nice if someone would ask if I wanted to be asked my opinion.” Ah, so that was it, Alfred mused. He had suspected as much, given the nature of the bill, but perhaps this was an issue that had been on-going for a while and he just hadn’t noticed. 

“Well, you may consider slowly phasing out such interviews, Master Bruce, to let people know they cannot just demand statements. Or, maybe you can change your mindset, and think of how many children” (Alfred very carefully did not say ‘like yourself’ here) “you may be helping,” he suggested. Bruce seemed to ponder this, and seemed to find it an acceptable solution, or he hid his true reaction with more ease than usual. 

“I’ll think about it,” he said finally. Alfred nodded contentedly.


	4. Wednesday, Night

Later that evening, the bat-signal was lit, and so Bruce had to head out before he was done eating. Gordon was waiting for him, looking out at the city, back turned. Bruce blinked away a sudden feeling of exhaustion, and stepped into the meager light of the bat signal. Gordon spun and when he saw Batman, and said, “I have some files about the fire for you. Some of my officers found trace amounts of Kerosene on-site. It wasn’t an accident.” Bruce growled more frustrated than usual. 

“Two-Face and Riddler won’t get away with it again,” he said. 

Gordon looked at him a moment and said, frowning, “I’m sure they won’t, not with you on their tails— but Batman, I have to be honest… you’re running yourself too thin right now. I’ve seen the cases you’ve been working, and you look tired. Take the file and go home.” There was an awkward silence, and Bruce stood there, file in hand, trying not to stare at Gordon. Was he really that tired-looking? Suppressing his annoyance— because the man did mean well, and if he could sense how tired Bruce was, maybe there was some merit to his suggestion. 

Batman responded, “Thank you for your…concern, Jim. But I’m fine. I’ll take a look at this and get back to you.” 

He went to grapple away, and Jim turned his back, muttering, “Get some goddamned sleep.” 

Gordon’s words echoed in Bruce’s head as he grappled back to the car and drove over to the charred bones of the apartment building. He read the file over twice before getting out to get his own samples to test in the lab. If the chemical analysis of the building’s remains was right, then there was no possible way this had been an accident. Silently, Bruce activated his cowl’s camera and began scanning for anything unusual. But almost an hour later, and after a whole sweep of the meager remains, Bruce was hungry, tired, and frustrated. 

Nothing looked out of place, which meant that either the police had interfered (accidentally or on purpose remained to be seen) or someone had been by to clean up. The chemical analysis remained to be done, but Bruce had a hunch that Gordon was right that this wasn’t an accident— which meant he had to figure out if it had been Riddler’s gang or Two-Face’s who had started the fire, and if that meant they knew about his predictive software or not. Barely catching a yawn, Bruce stood and went to finish patrol. He was fine. Gordon was worried about nothing.


	5. Thursday, Daytime

The next day, Bruce stood as close to the bathroom mirror as his sink allowed, covering over the blue shadows under his eyes. He could see Alfred standing in the entryway in the reflection. After a final stroke with the makeup brush, Bruce spun and asked, “How does it look?” Alfred raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. 

“It will suffice, sir. But, may I suggest a better way to rid yourself of looking tired? Perhaps an all-natural remedy, sleep, may do wonders for your complexion.” He left before Bruce could respond. 

Later, as Bruce inhaled his coffee, and read the newspaper, he forgot that he’d put concealer on and almost ruined his cover-up as he went to rub his eyes. Alfred cleared his throat and Bruce looked up, just in time. “You have the Police Luncheon today at 11:30. Shall I come by at 11?” 

Bruce looked at Alfred a moment, and then said, “Yes. Thank you, Alfred. I had forgotten about that… I’m playing golf with Gordon, right?” 

Alfred responded, “Yes sir, after the lunch, before the donations are announced.” 

Bruce nodded, and asked, “Did you pack my suit, Alfred?” 

His butler nodded, saying, “I did, Sir.” 

“Good,” Bruce said, standing. 

He didn’t get much done at work that day, as he was leaving at eleven. But Lucius did talk with him about the papers, and they decided how much of an idiot ‘Bruce Wayne’ should be at this particular shareholder’s meeting. After that, he responded to some emails, including a follow-up from Vicky Vale, and talked about his schedule for next week with Janet. Then Alfred arrived. 

As they pulled up at the hotel, Bruce automatically scanned the area for any suspicious-looking activity— that was also why he’d had Alfred pack the Bat Suit, because any charity event in Gotham was sure to generate interest in criminals, even if they didn’t actually do anything. But Bruce was worried that there would be an attack on the luncheon because it had already received a lot of press in regard to the amount of money it was expected to generate and for the fact that it was for the GCPD. So it was understandable if he was a little on edge. Alfred went away with the car and Bruce headed up, reminding himself to loosen up and become ‘Brucie.’ 

The lunch itself wasn’t bad, and Bruce was seated with Gordon, the mayor, and other big-shots. Unfortunately, the woman at his side had almost no interest in anyone else, so he was unable to speak to Gordon for most of the meal. The young woman finally saw one of her friends and excused herself to go say hello. Bruce mentally sighed, and was relieved he could finally stop flirting. Gordon’s voice broke through his reverie, as he said, “So, Mr. Wayne, how is your golf game?” Bruce chuckled, and it was somewhat genuine. 

“Please, Commissioner, call me Bruce. I must say, I’m pretty rusty, and if I’m remembering it correctly, the last time I played a proper game of golf was here, last year. I’m afraid I may embarrass myself.” 

Gordon laughed, replying, “If I’m going to call you Bruce, please, call me Jim. I hate to say it, but I think we’re in the same boat. I’m probably the worst golf-player here, much to the force’s embarrassment. They actually tried to nominate someone to play for me, but I refused— I think I may regret that.” Bruce smiled, raising his champagne. 

“If we fail, we fail together, Jim,” he toasted. 

Gordon smiled, and clinked his glass. “Yes, well, we’ll see” he mock-grumbled. 

Soon after, speeches were made, and those playing for charity headed to the roof. Throughout the hall, there were reporters lined up, and the place practically glittered with the flash of cameras. Bruce tried to ignore it, continuing his conversation with the mayor’s secretary. As they reached the elevator, the noise died down and Bruce had a few peaceful minutes to regain his sanity. 

Once on the roof, the noise increased as people milled about, chatting, making deals, and schmoozing each other. There were also a few reporters about, one of whom, Bruce was startled to see, was Clark. He almost scowled, but caught himself, and went to get another drink. When he turned around, Clark was there, refilling his glass of water— he even managed to spill a little on his shoes. Bruce barely repressed an eye-roll and went over. 

“Clark Kent! My second-favorite reporter. It’s good to see somebody from across the bay. Is Lois here with you?” he asked, winking. Clark smiled nervously, nearly spilling his water again. 

“Oh! Hello Mr. Wayne. I’m afraid it’s just me today— Lois is on another assignment. I’m writing about the relevance of golf in—” 

Bruce held up a hand, interrupting, “Kent, I don’t need the details. I’m just glad to see my reporters in action! And please, call me Bruce, I insist.” As people began moving to the starting hole, Bruce turned back, saying, “If you need a quote later, Kent, I’ll be here. Gotta go tee-up!” 

Bruce managed to tread the line between being a total idiot and having beginner’s luck— each hole made would add to the amount of money donated to the force, and if an officer won, the amount would double— so he spectacularly missed some of the easier holes, while ‘somehow’ getting his ball into the harder ones. After the game, he talked to a few reporters, including Clark, then went back to the refreshment table and got another glass of champagne. People settled down and the mayor gave a speech about the importance of supporting the force, the impact the money would make, and how he was so grateful to everyone present. Gordon got up and gave a shorter thank-you speech and brought up the officer who had won the game and had him present the check to the mayor to sign. 

Just as he was about to sign, there was a bang from the back doors and a sudden thump-thump of a helicopter. Bruce half-stood, and saw Clark sneaking away as well. But as he was almost away, he felt the barrel of a gun being pressed between his shoulder blades. Mentally cursing, Bruce slowly sat down again. “And where do you think you’re going, Mister?” asked the thug, who Bruce saw, was one of Penguin’s men. Bruce didn’t answer, and the man poked him with the gun again. The people next to him looked very nervous. The man said, “Hey! I was talking to you? Where do you think you’re going?” Bruce swallowed, trying his best to look nervous, but not too rattled. 

“I forgot my cellphone downstairs,” he lied calmly. The man, still holding the gun up so it was chest-level with Bruce walked around so he could see Bruce’s face. 

His eyes widened and he called, “Hey D, get your ass over here, I found Bruce Wayne!” Bruce tried not to sigh, or scowl, he really did. But at this point, he was very low on sleep, stressed about the gang war, and pretty pissed that now Clark was probably going to have to save his ass because of this. ‘D’ came over, proving to be a very large man in a poorly-fitting bird’s mask, not even a penguin one, but a parrot’s face. 

“What’re you hollering about over here?” he asked in a deep, slow voice. The original man gestured to Bruce with his gun in a way that made the other people at his table lean out of the way. 

“Look at who I got here, D. It’s Bruce Fuckin’ Wayne, he’s worth, like twice of most of these people,” he said. D scratched his head and peered at Bruce for a second. 

“Yeah, you’re right!” he said, “That is Wayne. You wanna take him and run?” Bruce cleared his throat, eliciting a glare from the woman sitting next to him. 

“Look, I have my wallet here, I can just write you a check, and no one has to go anywhere,” he said faux nervously. The two men looked at him and then looked back at each other. At this point, Bruce was wondering where Clark was, but then, he figured that he didn’t want people to question why he’d gotten there so quickly. He was on his own for now. 

D looked at him and said threateningly, “Don’t you fucking move. We’ll be right back,” and he dragged the other man with him behind a potted plant. Bruce briefly contemplated sneaking away, but he figured that if he disappeared, they would go looking for him, and if Bruce Wayne was missing, and Batman showed up, people would realized what had happened. So with no small amount of agitation, he waited for the two idiots to decide what they were going to do. To his annoyance, the rest of the room had gone quiet and the rest of the men were watching. 

Finally, the two came back and said, “Stand up, Wayne. You’re coming with us! The rest of you, empty your pockets for our friends here and nobody gets shot.” Bruce made no move and the man insisted, “Stand up!” 

Bruce held up his hands, protesting, “Surely we can work something else out!” 

D cocked his gun and said, “Stand the fuck up right now!” The woman to his left screamed and Bruce stood, sighing. The moment he stood, he heard something whooshing through the air towards him and then the butt of a gun hit him on the back of the head. Bruce toppled like a house of cards, knocked out by the blow. Everyone in the room watched him being dragged from the room. 

Hours later, Bruce woke tied to a chair in the dank basement of what was probably once a warehouse, but had started falling down, abandoned long ago. He guessed they were by the old East End docks, but couldn’t be sure. There were no windows so he couldn’t tell what time it was, and the only light was from a few half-broken fluorescent lights above. His head was pounding and his whole jaw sore. His memory was a little fuzzy too, but still clear enough to guess that he had at least a mild concussion, and maybe a fracture on his arm. 

Sighing, he tested his bonds, unfortunately finding that they were well tied. Without his belt, it would be much harder to get out— not impossible— but as Bruce had no idea where he was, or even how long he’d been there, it was not worth the risk. He looked around the room, so he would at least know where the exits were if there was an opportunity to escape. 

Suddenly, he heard loud voices and heard the man from before— D— saying loudly, apparently into a phone, “Yeah, he’s alive. We knocked him out, but it’s been a few hours so he’s probably awake by now. If you want to see your precious Prince again though, you need to send us the money! I’m checking right now, you can talk to him if he’s awake.” With that, the only sound Bruce heard was echoing footsteps, more than one pair. It was the two men from earlier. 

The big one held the phone to Bruce’s ear and said, “Be good, or I’ll shoot you in the back. Tell them you’re alive. That’s it.” 

Clearing his throat, Bruce spoke, “Hello?” 

On the other end, Gordon responded, “Oh, good. You’re going to be fine Bruce. We’re trying to trace the call right now, do whatever you can to stay on the line. Tell them we want to speak to you.” 

Bruce responded, “Yes.” 

The phone was jerked away from his ear, and D asked, “See, he’s alive. Now give us the—” 

“What? No, he’s not talking to you again. Oh? Really? Fine,” said D. He pressed the speaker phone button and held it to Bruce’s face. 

Gordon said, “You’re doing great, Bruce. We just need a couple more minutes—” 

Bruce coughed and said, “Uh, Commissioner, you’re on—” before a hand was clamped over his mouth. 

The other man was nervously pacing back and forth, saying, “They’re fucking tracing our call! Hang up, hang up!” 

D shouted into the phone, “Stop tracing this or I’ll shoot him! You hear me? No fucking tricks! Bring the money to the dock at midnight and we’ll bring Wayne.” He hung the phone up and turned to Bruce, finger pointed. “You! Did you fucking tell them anything?” he demanded. Bruce shook his head, adding a slight tremor to his voice. 

“No! I didn’t,” he insisted. 

The smaller one said, “He’s lying! They traced the call, I know they did. We have to fucking move.” 

D pointed the gun in Bruce’s face and said, “You better goddamn hope the trace on that didn’t go through, or you’re dead meat, Wayne. Let’s move!” Before Bruce could do anything, he saw D’s gun coming at him and then slumped in his chair as he was knocked out again. 

Much later, he jerked awake to a sore neck and pounding head. Bruce could feel the bruising and he winced at even the mild light. There was a commotion in the hall, and people were shooting— that’s what woke him up, he realized. If there was fighting in the hall, then that mean they were distracted and he could escape. Bruce began twisting his wrists to try and find any slack in the bonds, ignoring the twinge from his fractured wrist. With a small boom, the doors burst open and suddenly, Superman was crouched down in front of him, ripping ropes away. Once he was done, he helped Bruce stand, asking, “Are you alright?” after he wobbled some. Blinking, Bruce scowled. 

“I’m fine, Cla— Superman. Just get me out of here,” he ordered. Clark kept a hand on his shoulder and very obviously, scanned him. 

“You’re not fine! You have a concussion and a fractured wrist, Bruce.” 

Snarling, he replied, “I know that! Alfred can deal with it later. Let’s go.” 

Grumbling something, Clark scooped him up, much to Bruce’s annoyance, and flew off, saying, “We have to go see Gordon first. He’ll probably want a nurse to look at you too, then I’ll take you home.” 

Growling, Bruce replied, “Fine. I hope you got all of them, because if they’re still loose they are going to be very disappointed to be dealing with Batman.” 

Clark sighed, and said, “Well, I guess you are alright, then.” 

The flight took longer than usual because Bruce wasn’t protected by the Bat Suit. When Superman landed, a swarm of officers came by, Gordon at the lead. A nurse was at his side and she insisted on checking on Bruce before Gordon asked him any questions. She wrapped his arm and made him take pills for his head after declaring it to be only a moderate concussion. Bruce scowled after dry-swallowing the pills, because he was almost sure they were the knock-out kind. He answered Gordon’s questions and waited for them to stop talking with Clark. 

Finally, as he was already beginning to blink more from the painkillers, he interrupted, “I hate to be a bother after you’ve already saved me, Superman, but my cellphone appears to be lost, and I have no way to contact my butler. Could I trouble you for a lift home?” 

After that, they were quickly in the air, after a few cameras had snuck photos. Bruce scowled at Clark’s obvious desire to question him. “You’ll say nothing of this to the league,” he said, scowling. 

“Of course not! I’m just sorry I couldn’t get there sooner, save you the concussion. I saw you trying to sneak out after me— too bad it didn’t work,” Clark commented. 

A yawn slipped out of Bruce’s mouth and he frowned again. “I know, it’s fine. I didn’t expect you to, anyway.” They lapsed into silence and Bruce watched Gotham float by under them. Absently, he noted how warm Clark was, and wondered if it was a function of the suit, or if he was always warm. Without quite realizing it, his eyes began fluttering and he finally drifted off.


	6. Friday, Daytime

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. With a groan, Bruce sat up in bed and reached for his phone to check the caller i.d., annoyed that he’d fallen asleep in Clark’s arms yesterday. It would be difficult to live that down. His phone said it was Diana on the other end. He flopped back against his pillows, eyes closed against the throbbing of his head. “Hello,” he grumbled. 

“Hello, Bruce… did I wake you up?” Diana asked. 

“No,” he lied. 

Diana chuckled, seeing through his lie, “I’m sorry— I saw the news yesterday. I didn’t mean to wake you. Should I call later?” she asked. 

Sitting up, Bruce sighed, and patiently said, “Well, I’m up now. So, just tell me why you called.” 

“… I wanted to see if you were okay,” she said hesitantly, in a way that made Bruce’s heart leap into his throat. 

Somewhat gruffly, he responded, “I’m fine, Diana… although Alfred will probably keep me in for at least a day or two for the concussion, and wrist.” 

“Well, as long as you get better, that’s what matters,” she said sternly, “so listen to Alfred. Can I expect you at the meeting on Saturday, then?” 

Bruce groaned, “Fine! If you and Clark think it’s so important, I’ll be there.” 

He could hear her smiling on the other end. “Thank you, Bruce! Feel better, see you Saturday,” she said cheerfully. 

“Yes, thank you, Diana,” Bruce grumbled, hanging up. Immediately after, Alfred entered his room quietly, apparently not expecting him to be awake yet. He startled a little as he saw Bruce sitting up. Recovering, he fixed a look at Bruce. He asked sternly, “And why are you awake already?” 

Bruce stretched, replying, “Diana called— wanted to see how I was doing.” 

Alfred muttered, “Could she not have called at a later time?” Sighing, he went into the hall and retrieved a tray of food. Then he said, in a way that left no room for argument, “I took the liberty of calling Mr. Fox to tell him you would not be coming in today. I have also cancelled your other social plans, as Bruce Wayne has recently endured a traumatizing experience and needs time to recover. I expect that you will not exert yourself too hard, Master Bruce.” 

Grumbling a little, Bruce replied, “Yes, Alfred. Thank you.” 

Bruce managed to persuade Alfred to let him do some work, because he still had the big meeting to prepare for, and he argued that if he was doing that, it meant he wasn’t doing something more physically strenuous. He was able to work until just after noon, when Alfred entered his study and interrupted him for lunch, saying that Leslie would be arriving sometime later that afternoon to give him an examination; the nurse had only made sure he did not need to go to the hospital immediately and hadn’t put a cast on his wrist. Before she arrived, Bruce planned on finishing reading Lucius’ new summary Power Point and the accompanying briefing packet. He had literally just finished the last page of the packet when there was a soft knock on his door. 

Leslie took him down to the cave, as it had all the proper equipment— even casting material, although she had brought her own kit as well. First, she checked his concussion, and concluded that it was actually more of medium-moderate, and so advised Alfred to keep him in longer than ‘a few days.’ Next, she x-rayed his wrist and checked his stitches. He endured the casting, and the following lecture that “If you want to maintain your mobility, Bruce, you will have to keep this cast on for longer than you usually do. Wrist bones are delicate, as I’m sure you know, and this is a decent sized fracture here.” She left, and Bruce bitterly swallowed the bad news that he’d be out of commission for at least the weekend, and longer at Alfred’s discretion. All in all, Alfred reminded him, it could have been a lot worse, and that he was lucky they were allowing him out so soon. Bruce still grumbled.


	7. Saturday, Before the Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Saturday, and Bruce is recovering from the concussion and fractured wrist. He gets ready for the JL meeting.

The next day, Bruce didn’t wake up until 10:30, and when he finally did wake, he blearily reached for his phone, squinting at the light. He’d actually gotten eight hours of sleep, and felt almost giddy from both the lingering effects of the concussion and the wrench in his sleep schedule. Even turning on a light in the bathroom made his eyes water and head throb a little, so he kept only one light on low, so he could see what he was doing when he showered and shaved. He dressed casually in a pair of dark blue jeans and a cream-colored sweater and a pair of black dress shoes. Bruce finally went downstairs, checking the time as he did so—it was already almost eleven, and if he remembered correctly, the meeting was at one. 

Alfred was organizing the spice cabinet when Bruce popped into the kitchen. Placing a container of what appeared to be Cinnamon in the cabinet, he said, “Good morning, Master Bruce. I took the liberty of allowing you to sleep in today. You have coffee and a plate of breakfast waiting for you in the oven’s warmer.” 

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said, retrieving the plate and the caffeinated liquid, “I’ll be gone for a couple hours for the league meeting, and then I’m going to run some tests on the material I collected from that apartment fire.” Alfred arched a brow, giving him an accessing look. 

“Very well. So long as you remember that you are not allowed out on patrol, or I shall have to inform Dr. Thompkins of your activities,” he said, threateningly. Bruce sighed, well aware of the restrictions placed upon him. 

As soon as he was done eating, Bruce put the dishes in the dishwasher, and had almost been able to slip from the room before Alfred placed a pill bottle on the counter. “Are we forgetting something, Master Bruce?” he asked. Bruce suppressed a growl and spun around. He looked at the label. 

“These are the less drowsy ones, right?” he asked, stalling. Alfred sighed, muttering something about stubbornness. 

“Yes, per your request, they are indeed non-drowsy,” Alfred said, “take two.” 

Bruce complied, and went to finish getting ready.


	8. Saturday, the Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce attends the meeting. It's a long one.

Later, he’d suited up, and tried to ignore the ache in his head from the pressure of the cowl. It was a losing battle. He let out one small sigh before going to teleport up to the Watchtower. Alfred waved goodbye from behind the car, where he was tinkering with something under the hood. Probably the transmission again. The way Bruce drove, he went through a lot of engines. 

A wave of dizziness hit Bruce as he materialized aboard the tower because of the concussion. He actually staggered one step forward before catching himself with the shake of his head. Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone. “You alright, Bats?” pressed the concerned voice of one Flash. 

“Fine,” Bruce grunted, pointedly ignoring the lingering look being thrown his way. 

“Right,” Flash muttered, speeding off before Batman could even open his mouth to reprimand him. 

This was going great so far, Bruce thought as he strode to the meeting room and took his seat. Diana and Clark turned to look assessingly at him, and Bruce’s scowl deepened. He was fine. It wasn’t like Bruce Wayne was some china doll that would fracture into a million pieces at the drop of a hat. He was fine. Their concern was misplaced and unwanted. Finally, as soon as the last of the founders were there, Clark stood to begin the meeting. 

“Welcome, everyone. As I’m sure you know, this is the annual safety meeting. Thanks for coming. Hopefully, this will be quicker than last year, and won’t be interrupted like the year before,” Clark said, to a mix of muffled groans and chuckles. “Now, I have a short slide show prepared, with updated information about first aid, emergency services, things like that. If you have any questions, please hold them until after the slide show.” With that, Clark dimmed the lights and began the presentation. 

Bruce’s scowl deepened, as did his sense of impatience. He could be home right now, going over the analysis of the chemicals found at that fire, or be checking through his software for any viruses Riddler may have placed there. But he forced himself to tune back in as Clark went through the steps of C.P.R. So far, nothing new, but Bruce was humble enough to realize that even he, as smart as he was, was capable of missing things. Also, it was good to set an example for people like the Flash; it wouldn’t do to become distracted. 

After a while, the slide show ended and Clark took questions from J’ohn, Shayera, and Flash. Diana threw a pointed look his way, the third on in only five minutes. So, sighing, Bruce asked, “Where can you find this information, Superman?” He grumpily noted the small smile Diana threw his way. 

Clark, the boy scout, beamed at him. “Great question, Batman! You can find most of this on Google, although not all sources listed there are trustworthy. I usually look for a .org or .gov website. The Mayo Clinic, Red Cross, CDC, or WHO all have good websites with up-to-date medical information,” Clark said informatively. Bruce suppressed the desire to roll his eyes— it was a wonder nobody had found out that Superman’s civilian identity was a reporter. 

After that, it was J’ohn’s turn to speak. He brought up diagrams of the Watchtower’s medical center to point out where things like defibrillators, EpiPens, and first aid kits were stored. To this, Bruce paid a little more attention, as he rarely came to use the medical center, and would perhaps have to do so in the future. Thankfully, J’ohn was a much more succinct speaker and finished quickly. 

There was another opportunity for questions, then the floor was left open for anyone who had something else to add. Bruce, after being bullied into coming by Diana, had prepared a small report. He didn’t bother standing, as his head hurt again, and he also wanted to leave more quickly. 

“The symptoms of an allergic reaction are something we should all familiarize ourselves with. You should also know some of the most common types of allergens: pollen, shellfish, peanuts, tree nuts, dairy, soy, and gluten, along with some reactions to certain medications. Before eating something aboard the Watchtower, make sure that no one present is allergic, or consider eating in your private quarters. Also, prior to administering any medication, ask about allergies, or check the person’s chart,” Bruce said. 

Clark looked thoughtful, Diana was nodding slightly, and J’ohn had a serious look on his face. “Batman and I have decided to include a medical history sheet for all new members to fill out. If you have not received one yet, it is available in the medical center. Please fill it out as soon as you are able,” J’ohn said. 

With that, everyone seemed to come to an agreement that there was nothing else to be said, and so began filing out one by one. Before he could leave, Clark intercepted him. “Thanks for coming, B. That was some good information you told us. Do you think you could include that in the League email, along with my slide show? I don’t think we think enough about allergies,” Superman said. 

Impatient to leave, Bruce said, “Fine. I’ll add it to the email. Now please get out of my way, there’s things I need to get done in Gotham.” Before Clark could say anything else, Bruce strode from the room and was quickly at the teleporter. A glance at the digital clock revealed that that meeting had taken two hours. Bruce growled once before typing in the cave’s coordinates. He knew there was a reason he hated meetings.


End file.
